


Whumptober 2019 Good Omens edition

by keyrousse



Series: Whumptober 2019 [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Internal Monologue, Not permitted to display outside AO3, Not really whump, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 08:09:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21012542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keyrousse/pseuds/keyrousse
Summary: Ficlets written for Whumptober 2019 prompts.1. Dragged away2. Touch starved





	1. Dragged away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale goes to Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was posted in my other Whumptober collection, but since that one is mostly The Witcher, I decided to divide the two fandoms.

Aziraphale wakes up, hanging between two demons, his hands - well, more like Crowley’s hands - tied in front of him with a red rope. At the first sign that he’s conscious, his escort puts him on his feet and pushes him forward, through a dark corridor smelling of sulphur and mould. He trips, his head pounding, but he doesn’t fall.

He still has the sunglasses on, which is oddly comforting. He starts to understand why Crowley wears them all the time. He has little control over his snake eyes, so he doesn’t have to squint in the blinking lights overhead.

They really should have expected that, he thinks. Heaven and Hell wouldn’t take kindly to them averting another great war. He still remembers the look of surprise on Crowley’s - his own - face, as the demon was dragged away, wide eyed, hands bound and a tape on his mouth. He remembers the panicked need of getting him back, he remembers how he tried to crawl after the angels, to save him, but the blow to his head almost discorporated him, it would kill a normal human, so he had to focus on staying alive. Losing Crowley’s body wouldn’t do them any good.

So he walks, hours after switching their bodies he’s still unable to recreate Crowley’s swagger. He doesn’t feel like he should, even though Crowley sauntered into every danger, the picture of certainty. The body feels weird, so different, too many vertebrae in his spine, long legs, everything too loosely connected, and Aziraphale really doesn’t know how Crowley does it. How he controls it. Walking is easy enough. Hopefully, he won’t have to run.

Dread washes over him, more intense the deeper he’s lead into the corridor. He’s not sure whether it’s the general feeling of Hell, or just his situation. What would Crowley do? They were both kidnapped in broad daylight, with Death watching them. They expected some trials. Some punishment. Agnes warned them, so switching bodies was the only thing they could think of. Now they just have to see what awaits them.

Crowley would be brave, Aziraphale thinks and straightens slightly up. He stopped time in Satan’s presence. He helped convince the Antichrist to stop the Apocalypse. Crowley killed one of the Dukes of Hell to defend himself. He would be brave, no matter what. He wouldn’t beg, ask for mercy, he would take whatever they prepared for him, with a raised eyebrow and some kind of a quip.

They’ve been friends for 6000 years. It’s a long time to know each other.

Aziraphale steels himself. They will survive this and see each other again.

He’s lead into a “courtroom”. The place is as dark and mouldy as the corridor. An empty bathtub stands on the dais, a crowd of demons gathered behind the glass, four demons already waiting for him, sneers on all their faces.

There we go.

The rope bites into his wrists.

“Hi, guys. Nice place you got here.”


	2. Touch starved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has a revelation on the way back to London from Tadfield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That feeling when a ficlet for whumptober is more fluffy than whumpy? Yeah, that one. I had it writing this.

For 6000 years, they shared only a brush of a hand, mostly by accident. They weren’t allowed anything more. Aziraphale has always been afraid Heaven would notice. Crowley was a demon, they weren’t supposed to… fraternize.

The first time he felt that jolt of electricity as their fingers met, was in 1941, when Crowley passed the bag with the books he had managed to save from the bombed church. They hadn't seen each other since 1862, and Aziraphale started to come to terms with the fact that he had lost his friend. That they wouldn’t talk to each other anymore. And that was a very lonely feeling.

But no, there he was, in this absurd situation, dancing on the consecrated ground, warning Aziraphale of the danger upon him. Sure, it was the angel who miracled them safe from the bomb, but Crowley came here, suffered, warned him and then saved his books.

That brief touch of a hand, almost unintentional, was the moment when Aziraphale realised he loved Crowley.

He also realised how much he needed his touch. It’s always been subconscious, but at that moment Aziraphale knew what he needed. He still couldn’t get it, not for another seventy years or so. Not that he knew that at the time; it just made their whole situation more painful.

Since then, Aziraphale was sure to steal as much contact as possible. It was never enough, his hands always itched for touch. Their shoulders brushed every time they stood next to each other. Aziraphale tried to spend as much time with Crowley as possible, hoping against hope he would get what he so desperately needed.

But it was always brief enough to leave no impression, just a hunger for more.

Crowley didn’t seem to notice. Or pretended he didn't.

Sure, Aziraphale touched a lot of people. A hand on the back while he helped someone stand up. A handshake. A hand on the arm of someone who had trouble walking, like that old lady who was afraid to cross the road the other day. It was just helpful, nothing he craved. It was normal. Appropriate.

And here they are, the Apocalypse averted, the bus to Oxford with a detour to London approaching their bench, Crowley’s suggestion they went to his place still ringing in Aziraphale’s head. The bookshop burned down, he had nowhere to go. Only Crowley’s flat, the place he’s never been to, because he couldn’t risk being seen there.

But now… no-one’s looking.

‘We don’t have a side anymore.’

Aziraphale’s always been vain. He enjoys his comfortable clothes, he enjoys human food. It’s always been innocent enough not to draw any suspicions.

Now, he doesn’t have to be careful. Now he can get what he really needs.

When he sits down next to Crowley on the bus, he grabs the demon’s hand and feels the same jolt of electricity as in 1941. Crowley doesn’t comment, he just squeezes his fingers gently, runs his thumb across Aziraphale’s knuckles. The angel notices that the hand he’s holding starts to shake slightly, but he doesn’t let go. If Crowley didn’t want to be touched, he would say something. The demon only squeezes harder, not painful, just making sure Aziraphale’s hand is there.

They don’t look at each other.

They spend the whole ride to London like this, holding hands and not talking.

There is no electricity anymore, just the sense of familiarity, and it’s like a last missing piece of a puzzle fell into place. This is what they’ve been denied for 6000 years. There’s a lot to catch up with, but for now, the feeling of long, bony fingers in Aziraphale’s hand, and of warm, slightly plump and strong ones in Crowley’s, is enough.

Still, Aziraphale wants to melt into his best friend who happens to be a demon.

He doesn’t have to. Crowley, apparently exhausted after their quite eventful evening, leans towards him and puts his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. The angel can’t tell whether the demon’s eyes are closed, but judging how boneless Crowley seems to be right now, he’s sure his friend fell asleep. His mouth is half-open, but he doesn’t snore.

Trusting. Crowley has always been more trusting, more open. He keeps reaching out, but is respectful of boundaries. He’s waited patiently for 6000 years. The least Aziraphale can do now is reciprocate a little, now that he knows he can and he won’t be judged for it. 

Aziraphale switches their hands: he puts Crowley’s into his right one, it’s a bit awkward, but then he can put his left arm over Crowley’s shoulders and almost-but-not-quite hug him closer. Crowley doesn’t wake, but he snuggles into Aziraphale’s side and sighs.

Aziraphale glances at Crowley, at the sharp features of his face, now more relaxed than ever. There’s still soot on him and his clothes, but Aziraphale has a feeling it didn’t come only from the burning Bentley. Crowley’s hair is disheveled, and Aziraphale can’t help but put his left hand on it, gently scratching Crowley’s scalp.

It’s more intimate than anything they’ve done so far that Aziraphale feels a jolt of fear what he’ll be smitten on the spot.

He isn’t. Not in the way he expected, anyway.

The demon only slithers further down the seat.

They both need it, Aziraphale realises. The touch is equally soothing for both of them. Aziraphale's never touched anyone, not like that, not with affection, trying to pour his love through his hands.

He notices that Crowley’s cold body becomes slightly warmer in the places touched by Aziraphale. Like his energy diffuses into the demon. It’s a quite inspiring thought.

_Choose your faces wisely_, Agnes said.

So when they reach London, Aziraphale wakes Crowley running his fingers through the demon’s hair gently and squeezing the hand he’s still holding. And Crowley smiles at him, and it’s warm and loving.

“I might have an idea what the prophecy means,” Aziraphale says.

They leave the bus, still holding hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments feed the writer! I don't have anything more planned to post here, but who knows what my plot bunny could produce if fed well enough ;)


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